Toward the Gulf | Page 9

is like father's?
As if
the soul of father entered in him
And made the field of consciousness
his own,
Emotions, powers of thought his instruments.
That is a
horrible atavism, when
You find yourself reverting to a soul
You
have not loved, despite yourself becoming
That other soul, and with

an out-worn self
Crying for burial on your hands, a life
Not yours
till now that waits your new found powers--
Live now or die indeed!
SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL.
Let me consider your emergence
From the milieu of our youth:
We
have played all the afternoon, grown hungry.
No meal has been
prepared, where have you been?
Toward sun's decline we see you
down the path,
And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile,
Or
take us in your arms. Perhaps again
You look at us, say nothing, are
absorbed,
Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces.
Of running wild
without our meals
You do not speak.
Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy,
After removing gloves
and hat, you run,
As with a winged descending flight, and cry,
Half
song, half exclamation,
Seize one of us,
Crush one of us with mad
embraces, bite
Ears of us in a rapture of affection.
"You shall have
supper," then you say.
The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire,

The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock
We sit down to a
meal of hodge-podge stuff.
I understand now how your youth and
spirits
Fought back the drabness of the village,
And wonder not you
spent the afternoons
With such bright company as Eugenia Turner--

And I forgive you hunger, loneliness.
But when we asked you where you'd been,
Complained of loneliness
and hunger, spoke of children
Who lived in order, sat down thrice a
day
To cream and porridge, bread and meat.
We think to corner
you--alas for us!
Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out
Like
anvil sparks to justify your way:
"Your father's always gone--you
selfish children,
You'd have me in the house from morn till night."

You put us in the wrong--our cause is routed.
We turn to bed
unsatisfied in mind,
You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us.
Our
sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution
To whip you out when minds
grow strong.

Up in the moon-lit room without a light,
(The lamps have not been
filled,)
We crawl in unmade beds.
We leave you pouring over paper
backs.
We peek above your shoulder.
It is "The Lady in White" you
read.
Next morning you are dead for sleep,
You've sat up more than
half the night.
We have been playing hours when you arise,
It's nine
o'clock when breakfast's served at last,
When school days come I'm
always late to school.
Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door,
Eye through the crack,
maybe, at nine o'clock,
Find father has returned during the night.

You are all happiness, his idlest word
Provokes your laughter.
He
shows us rolls of precious money earned;
He's given you a silk dress,
money too
For suits and shoes for us--all is forgiven.
You run about
the house,
As with a winged descending flight and cry
Half song,
half exclamation.
We're sick so much. But then no human soul
Could be more sweet
when one of us is sick.
We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our
throats
Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer,
And
clothes were warmer, food more regular,
And sleep more regular, it
might be different.
Then there's the well. You fear the water.
He
laughs at you, we children drink the water,
Though it tastes bitter,
shows white particles:
It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well.

The village has no drainage, blights and mildews
Get in our throats. I
spend a certain spring
Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times,

Sick to somnambulistic sense of things.
You blame him for the well,
that's just one thing.
You seem to differ about everything--
You
seem to hate each other--when you quarrel
We cry, take sides,
sometimes are whipped
For taking sides.
Our broken school days lose us clues,

Some lesson has been missed,
the final meaning
And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed--

That shall not be made up in all our life.
The children, save a few, are
not our friends,
Some taunt us with your quarrels.
We learn great

secrets scrawled in signs or words
Of foulness on the fences. So it is

An American village, in a great Republic,
Where men are free,
where therefore goodness, wisdom
Must have their way!
We reach the budding age.
Sweet aches are in our breasts:
Is it
spring, or God, or music, is it you?
I am all tenderness for you at
times,
Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh
Crawls by an
instinct from you. You repel me
Sometimes with an insidious smile, a
look.
What are these phantasies I have? They breed
Strange hatred
for you, even while I feel
My soul's home is with you, must be with
you
To find my soul's rest. ...
I must go back a little. At ten years
I play with Paula.
I plait her
crowns of flowers, carry her books,
Defend her, watch her, choose
her in the games.
You overhear us under the oak tree
Calling her
doll our child. You catch my coat
And draw me in the house.
When
I resist you whip me cruelly.
To think of